Scandalous Desires

Chapter Thirteen

Naturally, Lord Caire would have an overwhelmingly elegant country residence. Silence listlessly perused the great library in Lord Caire’s country manor, hoping for something—anything—to distract her from thoughts of Michael. The late afternoon sun shone in the glass doors, illuminating the great bookshelves that lined three walls of the room.

She’d heard no word from Michael in the week since she’d hastily left his palace.

She really ought to be more grateful. Huntington Manor was huge and rambling with lovely food and servants to take care of her every need. Actually she hadn’t quite gotten used to the servants. The butler was a terribly daunting elderly man and Silence found herself flushing furiously every time she had to speak to him. Oddly, Temperance seemed right at home as the new Lady Caire. One would think she’d always been a baron’s wife from the ease with which she consulted with the cook about meals and the housekeeper about decorations and such.

Silence shook her head and trailed her fingers over the spines of the books lined up like soldiers. The library, like everything else in Caire’s country estate, was magnificently appointed. Histories, poetry, philosophy, and even a few works of fiction could be found here. She should be happy to have the chance to simply sit and read. She had no chores here, no tasks or worries.

“Gah!” Mary said, patting the glass on the French doors. They looked out over a terrace bordered by a mown lawn. Mary was carefully walking down the glass doors, admiring the view and the crows on the lawn.

Silence turned back to the bookshelf and pulled out a book at random. It was a treatise on Latin history—or so she thought. Her Latin was rather poor. She wrinkled her nose and replaced the book.

A week and no word from Michael. Well, it was silly to expect otherwise, wasn’t it? He’d sent her away with Caire and her brothers and even though he’d done so to protect her, perhaps he’d been secretly relieved to see her go. Without her around he could have tarts in his palace once again—two at a time in his bed, if he wished!—and go back to his wastrel pirate ways.

Silence kicked the lower shelf.

“Goggie!” Mary Darling said from behind her.

“No, sweetie,” Silence said, “those are crows.”

“Goggie!”

A thump came from the windows.

Silence turned, alarmed that Mary might’ve fallen, but the toddler was still standing against the windows. And on the other side was a very familiar dog wagging his tail like mad.

“Lad?” Silence whispered. She swiftly crossed to the glass doors and looked out. Dusk was gathering, but she thought she saw something flash in the trees beyond the lawn. “Oh, my goodness.”

There were guards, of course. The first thing Lord Caire had done on reaching his country residence was hire several strong men from the village to patrol the grounds. Silence craned her neck and saw two men just disappearing around the far corner of the house. She knew from watching them that they wouldn’t be back around to this side again for another ten minutes or more.

That is, if they didn’t reverse their course.

Hastily she found a pencil and flipped through the Latin book until she found a blank page. Silence wrote a short note to Temperance and left the book on a table, opened to the note. Then she scooped Mary up in her arms and went out the French doors. Lad immediately began jumping around them like a maddened hare, but fortunately he seemed to know enough not to bark.

“Where is he?” she hissed at the dog, feeling like a fool.

Lad pricked his ears forward and then turned to look at the trees.

Well, that was clear enough.

Silence darted across the lawn, arriving at the tree line breathless and with her heart beating in a staccato rhythm. She peered into the dark copse, but didn’t see anyone. Disappointment seeped into her chest. Perhaps she’d been mistaken at the flash. Perhaps Lad had somehow followed them from London. Perhaps—

A hand clamped over her mouth.

“Hush,” Michael murmured.

She nodded.

He lifted his hand and then just watched her. He was different—his clothing dark and plainer than any she’d ever seen on him. His coat was brown, his hat a simple black tricorne. And he’d covered his extravagant hair with an anonymous white wig, making his face appear leaner, his cheekbones sharper. His black eyebrows winging up so starkly against the white of the wig made him look more Satanic, more stern than ever.

“Will ye come with me?” he whispered.

And she answered without hesitation. “Yes, please.”

WINTER SIGHED SILENTLY as he watched another elegantly dressed lady pick her way down the narrow alley leading to the Home for Unfortunate Infants and Foundling Children. Lady Penelope wore an elaborately worked yellow silk gown with an embroidered jacket, and a velvet cloak thrown over her shoulders. The lady held her skirts high as she carefully stepped along, the jewels on her slippers winking in the sunlight. Behind her, Miss Greaves trailed, much less richly dressed and holding a silly little white dog in her arms. Winter eyed the winking jewels on the slippers sourly. The cost of those slippers could probably keep the home in coal and candles for an entire year.

At least he no longer had to worry about Silence, now that Caire and Temperance had her safely hidden at Caire’s. Still that didn’t quite make another day wasted with silly society ladies bearable.

“Oh, they do look splendid, don’t they?” Nell Jones commented beside him.

Winter coughed. “Indeed.”

“The children are so looking forward to singing for the ladies,” Nell said. “And they’ve become quite good at singing the same words at almost the same time.”

Winter arched an eyebrow. The last time he’d passed the classroom while the children were practicing, the sound had not been exactly melodious.

“And Joseph Tinbox has memorized the psalm he is to recite,” Nell went on. “If only we have enough biscuits for all the ladies! That last batch didn’t turn out quite right.”

Winter, having spent years dining upon the products of inexperienced cooks—the girls of the home did most of the cooking—knew better than to ask what exactly had happened to the last batch of biscuits. “I’m sure the biscuits will do very well.”

Nell flashed him one of her quick smiles. “Well, I just hope so. I wouldn’t want to let you down, sir.”

“You won’t, Nell. That I’m quite certain of,” Winter said as he stepped forward to welcome Lady Penelope Chadwicke and her outrageously expensive slippers.

“Oh, thank you, Mr. Makepeace!” Lady Penelope exclaimed. She wrinkled her nose as she let her skirts drop. “I do think you should do something to make the street cleaner. Perhaps you could see about having it repaved?”

“The home is only temporarily housed on this street, Penelope, dear,” Miss Greaves murmured. “Perhaps we should save large projects like repaving the street for the permanent residence.”

Winter shot Miss Greaves a grateful look. The lady smiled shyly back at him and he noticed that her eyes were a rather lovely dark gray.

“Oh, I suppose that’s the practical thing to do,” Lady Penelope said with a pout. “But I do think practical things are so boring, don’t you, Mr. Makepeace?”

Winter opened his mouth, a little bemused by this frivolity, but was saved from having to reply by the sound of hooves clattering on cobblestones.

A trio of mounted soldiers pulled their horses to a halt before the home. The lead soldier, riding a huge black horse nodded formally.

“Sir, ladies. Have I the honor of addressing Mr. Winter Makepeace?”

Winter felt everything within him still. He looked up into the man’s face. The officer wore the standard white wig like his men. Beneath, his pale blue eyes were sharp and intelligent. His face was long, with deep lines incised on either side of his mouth, giving the impression of a man who had been so hardened by life that he no longer made concessions for those less capable than himself.

“I am Winter Makepeace.”

The officer nodded. “Permit me then to introduce myself. I am Captain Jonathan Trevillion of the 4th Dragoons.”

“How do you do?” Winter said quietly. The ladies still stood by him, looking curiously up at the soldiers, but he made no move to introduce them to Captain Trevillion.

The other man noticed the omission with a tightening of his thin lips. “My men and I have orders to arrest any criminals we discover in St. Giles, with particular attention paid to the murderer called the Ghost of St. Giles.”

“Murderer?” Nell exclaimed. “But the Ghost has never been proved to murder anyone!”

Captain Trevillion turned his gimlet eyes on the maidservant. “He can defend himself in a court of law.”

Winter snorted under his breath. The Ghost might “defend” his innocence, but only if he could afford to pay the magistrate. The courts were notoriously corrupt in London.

“I expect your cooperation in this endeavor, Mr. Makepeace,” Captain Trevillion said coolly. “I shall be requesting the same from the other merchants and men of business in St. Giles, but as an educated man, I hope in particular to have your cooperation. Do I have it?”

“Naturally,” Winter said. He laid a restraining hand on Nell. The maidservant seemed about to make another protest. “We will do whatever we can to help the king’s men.”

“Good.” The captain nodded. “Whatever rumors you may hear will be of great help in hunting the Ghost of St. Giles and other miscreants. Indeed—”

“What a brave man,” came a husky feminine voice, “to declare he will hunt the Ghost of St. Giles.”

Winter stiffened even before he turned to see Lady Beckinhall. He’d been so intent on the confrontation with Captain Trevillion that he’d not been aware of her approach. The thought shocked him almost as much as the wash of quite inappropriate gladness that shot through him at the sight of her.

Lady Beckinhall wore a flaming red gown today, covered in silver embroidery. He felt a muscle in his cheek twitch. Her gown was at least as grand as Lady Penelope’s, perhaps more so, and it set off her rich mahogany hair exquisitely. Yet it wasn’t the expensiveness of her attire that perturbed him.

No. Disconcertingly, it was the woman herself.

Lady Beckinhall smiled quite blindingly and held out one slim hand to the man on the horse. “I don’t believe we’ve met, Captain.”

The soldier took her gloved hand and bowed over it. “Captain Trevillion at your service, ma’am.”

“Indeed?” Lady Beckinhall drawled. “How charming.”

A faint red stain tinged the captain’s craggy cheekbones, poor bastard. “If you say so, ma’am.”

“Oh, I do.” Lady Beckinhall glanced around at the people gathered before the home’s door. “To chase down a bloodthirsty murderer? Quite charming indeed.”

Lady Penelope gave a shriek at the word “bloodthirsty.” “Oh, my goodness! You told us the Ghost was harmless, Mr. Makepeace.”

Captain Trevillion’s stern eyes swung to Winter. “You have had some dealings with the Ghost of St. Giles, Mr. Makepeace?”

Winter shrugged. “Some. As I say, he never seemed particularly dangerous to me.”

“He has been accused of several bloody murders,” Captain Trevillion said.

Lady Penelope shrieked again.

Winter winced.

“But have no fear, darling,” Lady Beckinhall drawled, “Captain Trevillion is here to protect us, are you not, Captain?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Which is a good thing since we seem to have no other gentlemen as stalwart as the captain.” Lady Beckinhall widened her eyes at Winter.

Winter felt his jaw tighten at the ridiculous insult to his manhood, but he did his best not to let her see it. Instead he looked up at the captain. “If that is all, sir, I will bid you good day and see my guests inside the house.”

Captain Trevillion bowed again. “Good day to you, sir. Ladies.”

He wheeled the big black and set it to a trot, his men following behind. In another moment they were around a corner and gone from sight.

“My nerves are quite overset,” Lady Penelope declared. “And I’m sure Sugar’s are as well”—she waved vaguely at the little white dog, which appeared to be asleep in her companion’s arms—“I do hope that even a bachelor establishment such as yours has some tea and refreshments available, Mr. Makepeace?”

A bachelor establishment? What odd phrasing. Winter pasted a polite smile on his face and bowed to the silly woman. “Of course, Lady Penelope.”

He opened the door and watched her and Miss Greaves step inside. Lady Beckinhall was behind them and he cleared his throat as she drew abreast of him.

“I thought not to see you here again, my lady.”

“Had you not?” Her eyebrows arched over mischievous eyes. “But then I’ve decided that the home needs my help, even if you don’t think so, Mr. Makepeace.”

And she swept inside, leaving him to follow her, his eyes narrowed in contemplation.

ALMOST A WEEK later Silence frowned over her knitting. It was always hard to make the heel of a stocking, but this one seemed particularly misshapen. Michael’s carriage gave a bump and began slowing. She glanced out the window and saw that they were turning into a narrow, tree-lined country lane. Lad the dog raised his head at the change in speed. He lay on the floor of the carriage, taking up far too much room.

“Why are we stopping?” she asked. “This isn’t a London inn.”

The last week had been a blur of tedious travel over bumpy roads, interrupted now and again by stops at little inns where the food could vary quite drastically from good to inedible. Each night she’d fallen into a strange bed, exhausted, with Mary Darling snuggled close to her side. She’d woken in the mornings to find Michael already up from whatever bed he’d spent the night in and usually bringing her a pot of tea. He’d been kind and attentive and rather distant, now that she thought of it.

“We’re in Greenwich,” Michael said. “We’re home.”

She looked at him, sitting across the carriage with the baby on his lap, and as always the sight of him made her heart beat faster. “Home?”

He smiled crookedly, but didn’t answer. He wore the same clothes he’d had on when he’d first come for her at Lord Caire’s residence: worn and simple. She was almost used to this more sedate Michael. This Michael who might have been a traveling merchant or prosperous farmer.

What an odd thought. Silence peered out the window to try and find out what “home” was to Michael. The tree-lined lane opened up to a small circular drive in front of a mansion made of warm red brick. Ivy covered one corner, its branches still bare, and a half dozen chimneys rambled over the gabled roofs. Tender green shoots had begun to poke through the soil around the foundation of the house.

Silence looked at Michael in surprise. The mansion was quite lovely, it did indeed look like someone’s “home”—but certainly not a pirate’s.

He gave her a wry glance as if he knew her thoughts. “Come inside.”

He lifted Mary Darling in his arms, practiced now after a week of keeping her entertained in a cramped carriage. He descended the steps and held out a hand to help Silence step down. Lad bounded down from the carriage last, ran to water a tree, and then began running in wide circles.

Silence shook out her skirts and looked up. A short, stout butler had appeared on the front steps to the house, flanked by two young maids and an older woman.

“Good evening, Bittner,” Michael called as they approached the steps.

“Good evening, Mr. Rivers,” the butler replied. His round red face beamed under a snowy white wig. “I trust you had a pleasant journey, sir?”

Silence blinked and glanced at Michael, but instead of correcting the elderly man, he merely nodded. “Pleasant enough. Have you made the arrangements I asked for?”

“Oh, indeed, sir,” Bittner replied. “Mrs. Bittner made sure to procure the very best nursemaids from the village. This is Rose and her younger sister Annie.”

The girls curtsied shyly. The elder one was probably in her early twenties, while the younger was still a teenager. Both were fresh-faced and pretty with striking blue eyes.

“Rose has worked five years in the Johnson family nursery,” Mrs. Bittner cut in eagerly. She was a couple of inches taller than her husband, but just as rosy.

“Indeed?” Michael said.

Mrs. Bittner nodded vigorously. “The Johnsons have seven children, would you believe?”

“Then she should be quite capable of handling one small child,” Michael said. He glanced down at Mary who hid her face shyly in the lapels of his coat. He looked up again and drew Silence closer. “This is my friend Mrs. Hollingbrook. I trust you all will extend every courtesy to her while she is a guest in my home.”

Silence felt a blush creep up her cheeks. Only one kind of woman resided unaccompanied at a bachelor’s house. But she saw no trace of disapproval on the servants’ faces. Indeed, they were quite respectful as they curtsied and bowed.

“Naturally so, Mr. Rivers,” Mrs. Bittner said. “Shall I show Mrs. Hollingbrook to her rooms?”

“Please,” Michael said.

“Come with me, ma’am.”

Mrs. Bittner led her inside. The entry hall was neatly appointed, with wood floors and paneling gleaming with beeswax. Windows to either side of the front door as well as above it let in the late afternoon light, making the space warm and welcoming. A heavy wood staircase to one side of the hall led to the upper floors.

“This way, ma’am,” Mrs. Bittner said as she mounted the stairs.

Silence followed after her, glancing about curiously. Oil paintings decorated the stairs, but they weren’t in what Silence thought of as Michael’s usual style. There were a few landscapes, but the majority depicted sailing ships of all things.

“Ma’am?” Mrs. Bittner called.

Silence had paused by a huge painting of a ship in harbor. “Coming.”

She hurried after and found the housekeeper standing in the doorway of a bright little room. Silence entered, looking around. It was a beautiful room, done in several shades of blue. In fact, it rather reminded her of her rooms at Michael’s palace. She turned to look at the walls and saw the connecting door almost immediately.

No need to ask whose rooms lay beyond.

“I’ll have the girls bring up some hot water,” Mrs. Bittner was saying. “We’ll have supper at seven. That’ll give you several hours to refresh yourself and rest.”

“Thank you,” Silence replied. She hesitated, then blurted out. “How long have you known Mr. Rivers?”

Mrs. Bittner had been drawing the curtains. She paused and looked over her shoulder. “Bless you, dearie, it’s been five or more years since Mr. Rivers hired me and Bittner to look after Windward House.”

“Windward House?” Silence asked, utterly charmed. “Is that what it’s called?”

Mrs. Bittner smiled, the corners of her eyes crinkling. “As long as anyone in the area can remember. We thought Mr. Rivers might want to change the name to Rivers House, but he said Windward House suited him fine.”

“And he’s lived here ever since?” Silence asked, just to see what the housekeeper would say.

“Well, when he has a chance he does,” Mrs. Bittner replied. “His business takes him away most of the time, poor gentleman.”

“What is Mr. Rivers’s business?”

“Don’t you know, ma’am?” Mrs. Bittner’s brows crinkled. “He’s a shipbuilder, is our Mr. Rivers. Makes the finest ships to sail out of London.”

“Oh,” Silence said because she couldn’t think of what else to reply. A shipbuilder? How fanciful! And yet dressed the way he’d been for the last week, with his hair hidden sedately under the ubiquitous men’s white wig, Michael might indeed be a prosperous shipbuilder.

“Will that be all, ma’am?” Mrs. Bittner asked.

“Yes, thank you.” Silence smiled absently.

The door closed behind the housekeeper and Silence went to part the curtain and peer out the windows.

What other secrets had Michael hidden so well from her?

Silence only had time to notice that her room had a lovely view of a garden in back before the water arrived. It was pleasingly warm and Silence washed her hands and face before lying down on the soft bed.

But within minutes she was up again. She was simply too curious to lie abed when she could be exploring Michael’s secret house.

Outside her door was a hallway. She knew whose room was beside her own, and after opening a few doors she saw that the rest of the rooms in the hall were empty bedrooms.

Well, that was rather boring.

The stairs led both up and down. Up would almost certainly hold the nursery. She mounted the stairs and found the upper floor lined with windows facing south, the late afternoon sunlight pouring in. At the end of the bright hallway was a door.

She opened it and peeked inside.

Mary Darling sat in the middle of a large, beautiful nursery. The room was situated on a corner of the house and had windows on two sides with new bars to keep Mary safely in. There was a small bed and tiny dresser, and though there were only a few playthings, Mary’s new dolly had already been installed on top of the pillows on the bed. Anne was showing Mary a little wooden wagon with flocked horses to draw it, but on her entrance Mary looked up.

“Mamoo!” The baby got to her feet and toddled to Silence.

“And how are you, Miss Mary?” Silence smiled. The baby was freshly washed and wearing a new rose-colored dress that contrasted nicely with her glossy black hair. Silence looked at the nurse who had sprung to her feet. “Do you mind if I take Mary for a walk, Anne?”

“Oh, no ma’am.”

Silence picked up Mary and bore her away. “Shall we see what we can find downstairs?”

She descended the stairs, holding Mary. Below, they startled a little maid, dusting the pictures in the hall. They paused for a moment to examine the portrait of a funny spaniel dog before continuing. Further along the hall was an open door on the right. Silence tiptoed in and guessed from the masculine furnishings and the huge desk that this must be Michael’s study. She spent a few minutes peering at the sketches of ships and sails on the walls, and then Mary Darling indicated that she was bored.

“Very well,” Silence murmured. “Let’s see what else we can discover.”

Across from the study was a closed door. Silence gently pushed it open, expecting a little sitting room perhaps.

The room took up the entire south side of the house and was lined with French doors that let in the sun’s rays. A vast carpet covered the floor in muted shades of cream, apricot, and grass green, and scattered here and there were comfortable groupings of plush chairs and polished tables. The walls were lined with honey-colored wood, and everywhere there were books. Big books, small books, books on tables, books laying open as if abandoned by a recent reader. Some were old with crumbling spines, some looked so new they might never have been read, and all were illustrated.

“Down!” Mary said, and Silence absently set her on the floor.

This room was so elegant, and at the same time so comfortable. It was as if Michael had taken his library at the palace and made it something a person might actually want to spend time in.

Days in.

Silence looked around in wonder. By the window was a simple wooden stand with an enormous book opened on it. Silence went to it and looked down. An azure butterfly lay on the page, trembling and delicate, and almost alive. Carefully she turned the page and found an exotic black and white striped butterfly.

This was his butterfly book, she realized. The first book he’d kept. The one that had taught him that there was beauty in the world. She’d found Michael’s treasure, the heart he’d kept hidden.

She looked up and saw that at the top of the walls, where it met the ceiling, the wood had been carved. Butterflies cleverly flew all around the room.

“D’ye like it?”

She spun and was unsurprised to see Michael standing in the doorway, Lad by his side. “I do. It’s… wonderful.”

He smiled and nodded at the windows where Mary stood. “Mary wants to see the garden.”

“There’s a garden?” Somehow the information made her want to smile, as well.

“There is in summer. It’s not much more than bare earth at the moment.”

“Oh, can we see?”

In answer he crossed the room and opened one of the French doors. Outside a paved terrace separated the house from a garden. Low evergreen hedges demarcated earthen beds, most of them barren.

“Look.” Silence crouched over the nearest bed. Someone had planted crocuses and they had spread on their own, like a living carpet, spilling into the lawn. Their delicate purple petals fluttered in the spring breeze.

“Bye!” Mary said. She crouched in mimic next to Silence and pointed one stubby finger at a small, azure butterfly, sitting on a crocus.

The butterfly startled at Mary’s gesture and floated up, drifting on the breeze, its wings sparkling blue and bright in the late afternoon sunshine.

Silence watched it, enthralled, and then her eyes met Michael’s.

A corner of his mouth cocked up. “Welcome home, m’love.”

MICK GAVE A last tug to his neck cloth and scowled at himself in the small mirror over the dresser. His rooms at Windward House weren’t nearly as ostentatious as those in his palace, but he had kept one thing the same: his bed here was just as big as the one in his palace. He glanced around his rooms. It had taken him years to outfit this hidey-hole, this refuge where no one knew him as Charming Mickey O’Connor, and at first he’d felt foreign in this house. After all, he wore different clothes, used a different accent. He was a different man here. But somehow over the years, that different man had become merely another facet of him. Now he felt nearly as comfortable wearing Michael Rivers’s staid clothes as he did Mickey O’Connor’s flamboyant costume.

So if revealing his other identity to Silence wasn’t the reason for his present nerves, what was? He’d supped every meal with Silence over the last week. There was no reason then for this missish skittishness.

He cursed and thrust himself away from the mirror. No reason, and yet here he was delaying by playing with a plain neck cloth—he who usually wore silks and velvet!

Mick strode out of his room and down the hall. Bittner had already announced supper and Cook did hate it when he was late. But that was not what made his pace quicken. It was the thought of seeing Silence again. Mick snorted. Oh, he had it bad! Like a lad with peach down on his cheeks with his very first tart.

Except that if Silence were a tart, he’d be much more sure of what to do with her. No, he’d had to go and fall for a respectable lady. A lady with swirling hazel eyes that hid secrets he wanted to spend the rest of his life exploring.

Mick paused outside the dining room to catch his breath. And now he’d brought her to his secret hidey-hole that only Harry, of all his men, knew about. He was exposing himself, he knew. Ah, well, and he couldn’t even regret doing it. She and the babe needed to be hidden while Harry did Mick’s bidding in London and this was the safest place.

With that thought he opened the door to the dining room.

Silence was already inside, sitting primly on the right hand side of the head of the table. She wore a simple blue and white print gown—one that he’d had sent up to her, for she’d fled her brother-in-law’s house with only the clothes upon her back. It gave him a satisfied feeling to see her in clothes that he’d provided for her and he smiled as he prowled down the length of the room toward her.

She met his gaze steadily though her cheeks stained pink. “I was beginning to wonder if you’d join me, Mr. Rivers.”

He cocked his head. Had he imagined her emphasis on his assumed name? “And leave a lovely lady like yourself alone? I think not.”

“Humph.”

He sat and looked at her. “How is Mary Darling?”

“Fast asleep after playing and having a bath,” she said. “The nursery is lovely.”

“I’m glad you like it.”

“Rose and Annie are obviously practiced nursemaids, and what is even better, they seem to like Mary, and she them.”

He grunted. “It would take a hard heart to turn away from my Mary Darling.”

A smile curved the corners of her lips. “You didn’t seem too enamored of her when you first met.”

“She has a forceful personality, as do I. We just took a bit to get to know one another.”

She eyed him suspiciously. “I think your Irish has mysteriously disappeared from your speech, Mr. Rivers.”

No, he’d not imagined the emphasis. He shot her a warning look as Mrs. Bittner entered with a steaming dish.

The housekeeper bustled around the table serving roasted chicken, boiled vegetables, jellies, and fruit. A little maid trailed behind her, acting as acolyte to the service.

“There now,” Mrs. Bittner exclaimed when the table was laden. “Will you be wanting anything else, sir?”

“Thank you, no,” Mick murmured.

The housekeeper nodded in satisfaction and left with the maid.

“Will you have some chicken?” Mick asked as he reached for the dish.

“Yes, please,” she answered quite politely. “Are you in disguise here?”

He ought to have known she wouldn’t let it drop.

He gave her a wing and some breast meat. “Not exactly, but I find it… useful to have a place where I’m not known as the pirate Mickey O’Connor.”

She waited until he’d served himself and then tasted the chicken. “Then you’re a simple English gentleman when you’re at Windward House.”

He nodded. “More or less.”

“And do you really build ships?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

“How did I come to be a shipbuilder, do you mean?” He cut into his chicken. “Several years ago I hired Pepper to manage my money. He advised me that it would be wise to invest some of it in a business that wasn’t linked to my pirating.”

“But why shipbuilding?” she asked. “You could’ve chosen anything, couldn’t you?”

“I suppose.” He ate a bite of chicken and chewed as he thought. “I’ve always admired the ships that dock in London. I used to sit and watch them for hours at a time when I was a lad. Shipbuilding seemed a natural business to invest in. Too, there was an established shipbuilder—his business has been in his family for three generations—who was in need of financial backing. That was where I came in.”

“Then the investment has worked well for you?”

He shrugged. “I make nearly as much from the shipbuilding business as I do from pirating.”

She frowned a bit, drank a little of her wine, and set the glass carefully down.

He tensed with foreboding. He expected her to bring up again the topic of him retiring from pirating, but she spoke about something entirely different instead.

“That night when the palace was attacked,” she said, “you told me that you had thrown vitriol in the Vicar of Whitechapel’s face, but you did not tell me why.” She looked up at him, her hazel eyes dark in the candlelight. “Can you tell me now?”

He froze as her question caught him off guard. He’d been expecting the question all this long week, yet she’d chosen to ask it when he’d at last come home. For that at least he supposed he should be grateful.

He took a sip of the wine because his mouth had grown dry. It was a French wine and of an excellent vintage, but it tasted like vinegar in his mouth.

“I was a boy,” he began and then stopped. How could he tell her? This was the most wretched part of his life—the most wretched part of him. How could he expose her to it?

She waited, sitting quietly, her back straight, her eyes clear and innocent, and he could only stare at her, the words clogged in his throat.

“Michael?” she whispered at last. “Michael, can you tell me?”

And her voice was like a drought of sweet water relieving his thirst, quenching his pain.

“I was a boy,” he said again, holding her gaze, for it seemed the only way he could speak this terrible evil. “And me mam and I lived with him, Charlie Grady, the Vicar of Whitechapel, though back then he was only Charlie Grady. He made gin in St. Giles and he sent me mam out to walk the streets at night.”

She didn’t say anything, but her eyes seemed filled with sorrow. Sorrow for him, that innocent boy, long dead now.

“Sometimes she’d bring her customers back with her, but mostly she sold her wares out on the streets, and she never said naught to me about those nights, but once in a while I’d hear her crying…” His voice trailed away and he watched his hand as he fingered his glass.

He hated to think about that time. Mostly he was able to push the memories to the back of his mind. Try to forget them, though he never could. Truth be told he didn’t want to think about it now. But she wanted to know, so for her he’d dredge up this foulness.

He took a drink to rinse the taste of evil from his mouth.

“She would sing to me in the evenings afore she went out, and her voice was sweet and low. She did her best to shield me from him, for he had terrible rages and then he’d beat me. He never liked me much.” He shrugged. That part of his story was common enough in St. Giles. “But when I were thirteen or thereabouts she got sick. It was winter and grain was running low. He couldn’t pay for it, the price had ridden so high, and without the grain he couldn’t make gin. And she—she was too sick to go out at night.”

He paused and the room was very quiet. From without, distantly, they could hear someone laughing in the kitchen.

He looked up at her because he wasn’t a coward and he wouldn’t have her pity him for one. “I was a fair lad, pretty as a girl, and there are those who like such things, you understand?”

Her face had gone marble white, but she held his gaze and nodded her understanding once. No coward either, was his Silence.

“He said he had a taker for me and that I was to do as the man said or he’d beat me until I couldn’t move. Well.” Mick inhaled, still holding those beautiful hazel eyes. “I was an innocent, had never touched a girl in me life, but I knew the kind of thing that would be expected of me. And I knew it wouldn’t be the once. After I’d done it, Charlie would want me to do it again and again until I was naught but a boy whore, despised by all. I wasn’t going to be that thing. We were in his distillery and he had the vitriol in a basin to use for the gin. I knew what it could do, had watched it burn through wood. I took that basin and dashed it in Charlie Grady’s face and then I turned and ran as fast as I could.”

Silence gave a kind of shuddering gasp and spoke. “You had no choice. What he wanted you to do was abominable.”

He shrugged. “Maybe. But me mam never forgave me for it. She spoke but once to me after that.”

“Why?” she cried, the outrage in her voice a balm to his soul. “Why would she take his side against yours?”

“Because,” he said low, “Charlie Grady is me father.”